


when you're here, loving me

by slyther_ing



Series: named for you (made for you) [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angelina Johnson is a great friend tbh, Angst, But only a bit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Marcus doesn't know how to deal with situations properly, Quidditch, Reunion Sex, Rimming, in which Oliver realizes that they're still desperately in love, slow tentative romantic sex, there's a happy ending i swear ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:19:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7601395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His flat's too quiet, the bed's too big, and Marcus' last letter is gathering dust in the corner. Yet Oliver can't bring himself to let go. He's never been one to give up, after all.</p><p>(In which Marcus stops writing and Oliver hurts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you're here, loving me

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the angst continues - BUT the ending is happy at least? 
> 
> Title taken from "Fire Meet Gasoline" by Sia because, well, flint and wood equate to fire right? (Also they're made for each other, so there's that.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Oliver wakes up abruptly to the angry owl tapping on the window of his flat.

It’s not the owl he wants, though – light brown plumage instead of jet black. He has half a mind to just burrow further under the covers, ignoring the wrench in his stomach from getting his hopes up _yet again_ and the inevitable disappointment. 

The owl’s looking pretty put out at this point, so Oliver finds it in himself to take pity on the poor bird. He untangles his body from the sheets, and the owl swoops in the moment he cracks open the window.

“What’ve you got for me, hmm?”

The emblem on the parchment is that of Puddlemere, and the message inside is from the coach, informing Oliver that practice is cancelled due to unforgiving circumstances.

He sighs – he knows what those circumstances are. Fear mongering amidst the rumors of You-Know-Who’s return and Death Eaters roaming the streets have been interfering intermittently with practice, a decent amount of players being Muggle-Born. And while Oliver can sympathize, he really doesn’t see how Quidditch should be impacted. It’s not like Death Eaters are going to come busting into the stadium, demanding them to relinquish their brooms.

But then again, he’s not the one at risk.

The owl pecks reproachfully at his hand, and Oliver jots down a response – a quick ‘ _got it’_ just to reassure his coach know that yes, he’ll abide by the rules, and no, he won’t enforce his own personal practice. The thrill of being moved up to first string a couple months ago has only been dampened slightly by the on-and-off schedule.

Still, it’s what he’s wanted since he was tiny. First string Keeper on a smashing good team. Life could be much worse.

Except Quidditch isn’t distracting him _enough_. Isn’t able to drown out doubts and that stupid stupid hope he woke up to this morning – he’d wished the owl at his window had been the familiar black one because – well.

It would’ve meant that Marcus had written. It would’ve meant that Oliver would have a straightforward answer, something to write back to, to be angry at, or to move on from.

But it’s been 5 months and the letters from Marcus had just abruptly cut off. Bulgaria is far, sure, but not far enough to warrant this silence, not enough for March to bleed all the way into August without any type of correspondence. The last letter he’d replied to sits forlornly on his messy desk.

 

 _Wood,_  

_Yeah, your coach sounds mental. Then again, if you didn’t talk back so much, then maybe you’d get your ass off the bench and in front of the hoops. God knows you should be good enough, at this point._

_It’s still pretty cold here. Makes flying difficult when your hands are frozen stiff, but I guess winter in England will be a joke after this._

_Triwizard sounds nasty – who do you reckon will win, Diggory or Krum? Potter may be your ‘star seeker’ but he’s still a brown-nosed fourth year._

_Yours,_

_Marcus_

Yours. Yours, Marcus had written. Oliver’s not sure whether that’s still true.

Oliver glares at the parchment. He’s mulled over it, tried to read in between the lines, but nothing is there to indicate that Marcus had been angry with him, just the usual bluntness. Nothing there to indicate that anything had happened to Marcus that would be cause of concern for his health.

The Magpies hadn’t issued any talk of a tragic accident, and the Quidditch network is small as it is – so that’s out.

His own response was merely a rebuttal against Marcus’s lack of confidence in Harry, a snide joke about warming up, and a question about whether or not the new Chaser formations he’d heard of was really as good as they sounded. Nothing to warrant the silence he’d been receiving. Oliver can’t stand the uncertainty, can’t stand the feeling that the carpet’s been ripped out underneath him.

He’s entertained the notion of shredding the letter, but he can never bring himself to do it. The words are short and unimportant, at the end of the day, but it’s still the last piece of Marcus he’d held for months.

The roar of the Floo drags him into the living room. Angelina’s head grins up at him from the fireplace.

“Guess who got their Captain’s letter today?”

Oliver laughs, cheering up significantly at his old Chaser’s news. “Finally!”

“Yeah,” Angelina says, “Would’ve liked to get two years under my belt, but what can you do when they decide to bring back the Triwizard Tournament? I wanted to thank you for recommending me to McGonagall.”

“C’mon, you’re a natural born leader.”

Angelina’s flush is noticeable on her dark skin, but she’s grinning cheekily all the same. “That means a lot, Ollie.”

“Just speaking the truth.”

Angelina peers into his flat, and Oliver remembers that he’d left a bunch of his Quidditch equipment just laying around his living room. He makes a note to tidy up when he has the patience to do so.

“I actually was surprised I caught you. Don’t you have practice today?” Angelina asks.

Oliver shrugs. “Cancelled. Second time this month, actually.”

“In that case – I was planning on heading to Diagon today. Do you want to grab lunch? I could use some advice on following up the best Captain I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only Captain you’ve had.” Oliver snorts.

“Still.”

Oliver rolls his eyes, but his heart bursts with affection. “Alright, alright. Lunch sounds good, anyways. 

“Great,” Angelina smiles, “See you at 11 then, outside Flourish and Blotts!” And she pops out of the fireplace, leaving Oliver kneeling besides the empty grate.

Marcus Flint be damned, Oliver thinks, I’ve got to find my old Hogwarts playbook.

***

Angelina’s already waiting in front of the bookstore by the time Oliver apparates in, and she laughs as he stumbles a bit.

“Never will get used to that.” He sighs, as she lays a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

“You were always more graceful on a broom.” Angelina says cheerily, and they head towards the Leaky Cauldron, pulling up a chair each in a small table in the corner.

Angelina’s eyes widen at the old playbook he slides towards her once they’ve placed their orders. “No way, Ollie. You’re giving me this?”

Oliver grins. “Nobody better to give it to.”

She wolf-whistles as she thumbs through the pages quickly. “Not bad, not bad. I’ve got big shoes to fill.”

“Johnson, trust me – you’ve already proven yourself time and time again.”

And Angelina has, Oliver muses, as she explains her own plans and training regime for the season. She’s as strong-willed as any of them, and her energy will definitely be appreciated in contrast to his strictly ordered schedule. McGonagall always did know who to pick – Gryffindor’s in capable hands.

“Any advice?” Angelina asks, as she finishes outlining a decently spectacular play.

Oliver pokes at his sandwich. “From the sounds of it, you’ve got it all under control. Just don’t let Harry get too enamored with Cho Chang. Can’t let relationships get in the way of winning.”

Angelina snickers. “Yeah, didn’t stop you your seventh year, did it?”

Oliver looks up with a jolt. “What do you mean?” He says casually, attempting to play it off.

So he hasn’t told any of his old teammates about Marcus, except for Fred and George (who have enough tact not to gossip about). And with the way things had been going - or not going – now, Oliver hasn’t made an effort to fill them in, regardless of how much he tries to keep in contact with them.

“Nothing. Just you know – you were so focused on Quidditch, you didn’t have time for any relationship.” Angelina shrugs casually. But she’s eyeing him with a look that tells him she knows _something_ , if not all of it. Smart girl, Angelina.

Oliver merely nods in agreement.

Angelina sighs. “Alright, Oliver, out with it. You’ve listened to me talk, it’s your turn.”

“Talk about what?”

“Wood, you seem agitated. And, to be honest, pretty miserable. So what’s got you down? It can’t be Quidditch – unless starting Keeper isn’t all it’s cut out to be?”

He laughs. “No, no playing first string is...well, it’s the dream isn’t it? Quidditch is great, always will be.”

Oliver’s not sure if he’s willing to spill everything over lunch, not to Angelina who doesn’t need to hear all his self-wallowing doubts. He’s also afraid that all his romantic angst, for lack of a better term, will sound silly said out loud.

“And Flint?”

Oliver chokes on his bite of salad. Angelina nudges his glass of water over looking faintly amused. He emerges out of his coughing fit a little sheepishly.

“Don’t give me that look, Oliver.” Angelina smiles broadly. “I notice things, alright?”

Oliver sighs. “Alright, you’ve got me.”

“Is that what’s been bothering you then? Because, I swear, if he’s done anything, I’ll sic the twins on him.”

His laugh sounds hollow, even to his own ears. “It’s more like what he hasn’t done.” Angelina arches a dark eyebrow before Oliver clarifies. “He’s in Bulgaria training – has been for the past year.”

Angelina waits patiently for him to continue

“He just…stopped writing. A couple months ago. Five.” The words spill out of his mouth before he can form them into coherent thoughts, and voicing the words feels like a spike through his chest. Oliver’s throat closes up before he can continue.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” Oliver says.

“Well.” Angelina says tentatively, setting down her sandwich, “Do you still want him?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? He wants to say no, wants to talk himself out of these emotions and this negativity. But his chest seems stuck on empty when he’s not in the air. The bed is always, always too large. There’s barely any food in his fridge - partly because he’s shit at cooking for himself but also because he doesn’t have an appetite, and his dreams at night are filled with flashes of crooked teeth, sharp smiles, grey eyes.

“I don’t know.” He says, even though he does.

Angelina brushes her hand of crumbs. “If you don’t, the best way to get over someone is to go out and meet people. You’re a Quidditch star” – Oliver snorts – “You are, Ollie, don’t sell yourself short. People are bound to be interested.”

Her eyes soften. “If you do, well. I guess it’s a waiting game.”

Oliver hates waiting. Angelina knows that, because they’ve been friends long enough for her to read his agitation when he can’t get on the pitch on time. And waiting for something that he’s not even sure will actually come to fruition is even worse.

“I don’t even know if we’re – Marcus and I, I mean – if that’s a thing anymore.” He says, and it sound pitiful to his own ears. Oliver’s been brushed off like a speck of dust. It stings.

“Try and find out, I guess. Bombard him with Howlers. Actually, I’ll do that for you.” Angelina smiles as Oliver laughs. “Pucey or Higgs aren’t a good way to get in contact with him?”

“When exactly have we been close enough with the Slytherins for that, Angie?”

“Point taken.”

They drop the subject, moving on to talk about classes, guessing who the new Defense teacher will be (“Hopefully someone like Lupin,” Angelina sighs, “He was the best.”) and discussing who might be viable new Keepers for Gryffindor.

When they head their separate ways, three hours later, Angelina gives Oliver a long hug.

“Everything will be okay, Ollie. Things always are.”

Oliver hopes that she’s right.

***

He’s sitting on the locker room bench, listening to the coach running through formations for the upcoming match with the Magpies, when Marcus Flint comes crashing back into his life.

“They’ve got a new Chaser you need to watch out for.” The coach’s face grimaces as he addresses the Puddlemere Chasers. “Came back from training in Bulgaria a few months ago, apparently, and demolished the Wasp’s Keeper in his first game. Name’s Marcus Flint.”

Oliver hadn’t even known Flint was back in England. A few months – damn him to hell.

For the first time, the hollowness in Oliver’s chest starts brimming with hurt, and he’s _angry,_ damn it, because Marcus didn’t even have the courtesy to give him a straight answer. Didn’t even bother telling him he was back, just shrugged him aside as insignificant. He’s not sure he can face the man on the pitch without anger overtaking his focus, and if the Wasp’s Keeper suffered horrendously, then he needs all the focus he can get.

 _Fucking_ Flint.

The anger carries him through the rest of practice, except he’s terrible, misses five shots out of ten, and the coach gives him an earful, threatens to pull him from first string if this is the way Oliver’s going to be. His mouth tastes stale and bitter when the man barking at him asks him for a reason.

Being hung up over Marcus Flint is not a good enough reason, and Oliver knows it. So he keeps his mouth shut, and vows that he’ll do better. The first thing he does when he gets back to his flat is tear apart the letter he’s been saving, throwing the shreds into the fireplace. He hides beneath his covers after that, because sleeping is a far sight better than pacing around the living room trying to figure out where exactly it went wrong.

The next practice, Oliver doesn’t dare miss a single save. 

***

Two weeks later, Oliver finds himself standing in front of the Magpies on their home turf. It’s a small victory, the fact that the Magpies are the guests, but it gives the impending match higher stakes – nobody wants to be embarrassed on their own pitch. Oliver eyes them, sizing them up. The Beaters are strong, solidly-built, and Montrose’s Captain is their Seeker. She barely makes it up to Oliver’s shoulder, her build perfect for her position. Their Keeper seems unbothered, whistling as he examines his broom, chatting idly with one of the Chasers. Clearly, the Magpie’s Keeper thinks it’ll be an easy win.

And then there’s Marcus.

He stands a little to the side, decked in black and white like his teammates, but his arms are crossed. Closed off. Grey eyes are focused intently on the Quaffle, and he only nods briefly when the referee addresses him.

Oliver can’t keep his eyes off of him.

God, he wants to ignore the Chaser, wants to play cold and uncaring and completely unaffected, but his face has always been an open book. Marcus is just standing there, but Oliver has to admit he looks _good._

The National League and tabloids make it so that players need to look their best – media is harsh, and it’s not like Rita Skeeter has ever been kind. All Quidditch players know the game.

And yet Marcus still catches him by surprise. His black hair is styled casually, in a way that screams nonchalance yet put-togetherness. His jawline’s just a little more defined, shoulders are broader, fills out his uniform _well_ , and when Marcus opens his mouth to respond to something the Magpie’s coach says, Oliver notices the glint of straight white teeth.

The image of a newly minted Quidditch star is there in Marcus’ whole being, and Oliver hates himself for wanting to reach out, stride across the pitch, and _touch._ But Flint hasn’t looked once in his general direction, even as they line up to take to the air, and Oliver grits his teeth, pride sharp and cold in his throat.

“Pay attention to your left,” his coach tells Oliver, “Flint favors that side.”

Oliver doesn’t need to respond. He knows how Marcus plays like the back of his hand.

The match is brutal, fast-paced, and it takes all of Oliver’s skill to keep from the Magpie’s Chasers tearing him to shreds. Marcus is even faster and sneakier than he was at Hogwarts – he rolls through Bludgers with grace and aims with brutal precision. The referee watches him with a close eye, but no fouls are evident in his play – Flint’s moved on from schoolboy tricks to harsh focus. Oliver hates that he wants to know everything about Marcus’ training, hates himself the moment the clang of the hoop indicates that the Chaser has scored.

But Oliver isn’t on first string for nothing, and he keeps the hoops under his guard enough that when Puddlemere’s Seeker throws a triumphant fist in the air, there’s enough of a gap in score for them to cinch the win.

They’ll be moving up in the League, based on points, and while the opposing Keeper’s square face is sour, the Magpies have enough under their belt to still be in the standing. Their Captain’s shake hands, and Oliver breathes a sigh of relief that this isn’t expected from everyone else on the team.

“Bloody hard game,” Rodgers says, the Puddlemere Chaser cracking his neck as he and Oliver head towards the lockers. “Cannons are going to get pummeled next month, I tell you.”

“When aren’t they?” Oliver fakes a laugh, more intent on getting away from the pitch as fast as possible than participating in after-game talk.

Rodgers snorts, about to retort, but he stops short from opening the locker room door, eyes trained on something over Oliver’s shoulder.

“What do you want, Flint?”

Oliver curses under his breath, attempting to push past Rodgers, but the man’s unmoving in his stance.

“Nothing important.” Marcus says. The sound of Flint’s voice bites at Oliver’s skin like a stinging hex. “Just wanted to say hello to Wood here.”

“Ah, right, you two would’ve gone to school together.” Rodgers says, oblivious to Oliver’s thunderous expression. “Don’t take too long, Wood, we’re going for drinks.” And the Puddlemere Chaser leaves Oliver to fend for himself, whistling as he enters the locker room.

The bastard. Oliver vows to block every single one of Rodger’s shots next practice.

Marcus stands in front of him, arms crossed and expression unreadable, and it’s the first time today that the man is looking directly at him. Eyes just as grey and intense as always – Oliver’s glued to the spot even as every fiber of his being is screaming at him to turn tail.

But he’s a Gryffindor. So he wracks up the courage and stays put.

“You played well today.” Marcus starts, as if he pays compliments to Oliver (anyone, really) on a regular basis.

“You too.” Oliver says coldly, because Marcus _had_ played well. Spectacular, really, and Oliver hates the very fact that the Chaser had been able to get five goals past him, more than anyone else the entire game.

He can’t muster up any further words, can’t break through the hurt in his throat.

Marcus shuffles his feet, and if this were any other scenario, Oliver would be laughing at how he’s managed to render Marcus bloody Flint into an awkward mess. Marcus seems to withdraw a bit, before he straightens himself out, clearing his throat.

“Wood. There’s – there’s a lot to explain and - ”

“You think I want to hear it?” Oliver bites out, and he does, _he does_ , he wants answers and closure but his mouth seems to be running on his heart instead of his head, and he gets some sort of sick satisfaction at the way Marcus flinches at his tone.

The Chaser draws himself up, however. “Can I – can we go back to my place? To talk this out.” He pins Oliver there with his gaze. Direct and completely focused on where Oliver’s trying to make sense of the emotions swirling in his gut. Earnest.

He has to say no, Oliver tells himself, has to give a cold, cutting refusal and let Marcus’ explanations go to rot, because all that’s going to come of it is heartbreak and excuses and -

“Fine.” Is what Oliver actually says.

(He hates the fact that he still plays right into Flint’s hands.)

Marcus is by his side in a second, and Oliver can do naught to stop Marcus from gripping his arm tightly, the familiar pull at his gut as they whisk away. He tries not to think about the warm strength of the hand on his bicep.

***

When he opens his eyes again, Oliver’s standing in a sparsely decorated flat – there are no pictures on the walls, the couch looks brand new, and the only sign that Marcus actually lives here is the neatly lined up pieces of Quidditch equipment. The wooden floors shine beneath his scuffed shoes, and everything just seems foreign and cold.

Not unlike the man standing in front of him right now.

Oliver’s confused, and it’s been five months since they’ve last corresponded, and more than a year since they’ve seen each other. All he wants to do is ask _why._

The word sounds broken and bitter where it falls into the room, and Marcus jolts as if he wants to move forward, but keeps himself back from reaching for Oliver.

“I’m sorry.”

Oliver freezes, because this is the first time he’s ever heard Marcus apologize for something straight out. He watches as the Chaser runs his hands through dark hair, damp from the quick shower he must’ve taken after the game.

“My father died.” Marcus says.

Oliver blanches. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Marcus snorts, almost in a way that’s humorous. “Don’t be. Not like you knew him. He wasn’t much of one – a father I mean.” He sits down heavily, looking over the palms of his hands.

“But I had to come back , because I’m the only son. Heir and shit. Had to deal with everything.”

“Everything.” Oliver repeats.

“Funeral arrangements. Sorting out the will.” Marcus swallows, then continues to stare at his hands. “Cleared the manor of all Dark Arts related material, what with what’s going on right now.”

Oliver uncrosses his arms, from where he’s been unwittingly on the defensive. “You believe Harry, then? That You-Know-Who’s back?”

“Diggory’s dead, isn’t he?” Marcus stares back up at him and he’s right. Oliver’s throat closes up again at the thought of Cedric, handsome and purely good, younger than the both of them and already cold in the ground.

“Yeah.” Oliver says quietly, unsure of how to go further. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. That I didn’t write, I just – I didn’t know what to say.” Marcus says too calmly, in a way that makes Oliver think he’s practiced this apology multiple times. He can’t help noticing how Marcus is gripping the edge of the couch tightly. “Didn’t mean to – to hurt you. Didn’t even realize what it must’ve been like for you until Johnson’s Howler.”

Oliver can’t help smiling a little at Angelina carrying out her threat.

“I know it’s not an excuse.” Marcus says resolutely. “But I’d never try to purposely hurt you, Wood, you can believe that. And I didn’t want you to be dragged down by all the Dark stuff, there’s some nasty shit about my father that no one needs to see.”

“Marcus.” And Oliver feels all the fight and the anger and the hurt drain out of him, replaced with just a great, great want to understand. “Marcus, it wouldn’t have – fuck, I could’ve helped - ”

“Didn’t want to involve you in the mess, Wood.” Marcus says firmly, and the grim line of Flint’s mouth lets Oliver know that this, this is something that the man was unwilling to sway on.

“Fucking hell, Flint, you can’t – you can’t make decisions for me! You can’t just decide, and leave me in the dark, not like this.”

“I know.” Marcus’ voice is reserved and resigned in the quiet of the flat. “I know that now. And I am – I’m sorry.”

Marcus stands, but doesn’t allow himself to move closer.

(Oliver really, really wants him to, even with everything.)

“I-I was scared, too” Marcus takes a deep breath, fists curled in the bottom of his shirt, “Scared that maybe you’d take one look at my father and think that I’d be the same.”

Oliver struggles for the proper words. “Merlin, don’t you think I know you better than that? That I could never hate you for, for what? You don’t get to choose who your father is.”

Marcus’ jaw jumps.

“I thought you would know _me_ better than that.” Oliver finishes quietly, and Oliver really, really wants to take the strides over to Marcus and just _touch_ him, to reassure that he knows its not that simple. Marcus looks ashamed at admitting his doubts, brow drawn and eyes downcast, but Oliver doesn’t want _that_ either.

They’ve caused enough pain for each other in the past few months, even if it was all inadvertently.

The Chaser folds his arms across his chest, and Oliver can tell that he’s purposely making himself smaller, curling in on himself to take up a little less space.

Marcus clears his throat, grey eyes darting across Oliver’s face. “I get it, now, how I’ve hurt you and - and why you’re angry. I still love you, though. If you want, we could start- ”

“You love me?” Oliver cuts him off. Because Marcus had never said the words, not so much out loud, in the entirety of their relationship.

(And as much as Oliver believed in him, in actions, he overthinks and worries and the past five months had made doubts rear their ugly heads.)

“Well, yeah.” Marcus says, disgruntled at being interrupted. “Why else would I be talking this out?”

Oliver can feel his heart beating double-speed against his ribs.

“You bastard.” Oliver whispers, and Marcus’ mouth downturns into a scowl, eyebrows furrowing.

“Look, if you don't want anything to do with me, you can say it. I get it.” Marcus folds further in on himself, but then Oliver’s in front of him in a blink of an eye.

“You bastard.” Oliver says again, softly, and then he tugs Marcus down by his collar, the taller body stumbling into his – just like the very first time they’d kissed in a dusty Charms classroom.

Oliver can’t help but moan at the first touch of Marcus’s lips – it’s been too long, too many nights spent imagining the feel of the other man’s body against his own, too many dreams of touches and hands that only further incensed him upon waking. Marcus’s tongue is tentative against his, unsure. Oliver can feel the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, just from his body pressed against Marcus’s broader form.

They pull away from each other, breaths coming fast.

“Yeah. It hurt.” Oliver says softly. “But Marcus, Marcus…I still love you too. Right back.”

Marcus lets out a breath, as if all the tension that had been in his body had uncoiled at Oliver’s reciprocated declaration.

“Fuck, just – c’mere.” Marcus mutters, eyes half lidded, and then he’s kissing Oliver again with fervor, full of teeth and tongue and brutal, brutal possession. Their hips slot together and the brush of Marcus’s growing hardness against his own has Oliver terribly aroused, far too soon.

It takes a lot of self control to pull back and rear in the thrumming of want and painful joy and _love_ in his chest.

“Bed. Bedroom – please.”

Marcus nods in acquiescence, still pressing his lips anywhere that they can reach. They navigate their way backwards, too caught up in one another to pull away for longer than a second. Marcus runs into the doorframe of his bedroom with a grumble.

“Smooth.” Oliver grins.

“Shut up.” Marcus responds, but he’s grinning as well.

Marcus’s bedroom is sparsely decorated – small desk in the corner, one lone wooden chair. The covers are a light grey, and the bed is unmade, as if Marcus had just rolled out of it. Oliver realizes that there’s no big indication that the flat has been very lived in – he mentions as much to Marcus, who shrugs.

“Dealing with shit. Haven’t been sleeping here a lot.”

Oliver traces his hands along Marcus’ back. “You’re going to tell me everything – one day.”

“I will. I will, I promise. I just need…need some more time.” Marcus breathes out, hands still clutching at the front of Oliver’s shirt.

Oliver hums in understanding, kissing Marcus lightly on each fluttering eyelid to indicate that he gets it and there’s really, really nothing left to do but move forward.

And then he’s undoing the buttons on Marcus’s shirt and it feels natural, like no time has passed at all and _fuck,_ how could he have ever thought he’d be able to live without this?

Marcus’s hands (just as big and calloused as he remembers) are running up and down Oliver’s torso, thumbs smoothing their way down ribs and abs and hipbones. Somewhere along the way – Oliver’s not sure where amongst the flurry of kisses – his own tee has been removed. They stay like that for a bit, shirtless, just touching one another.

It seems Marcus’s patience is still on the short side, after all, because he lets out a groan and pushes Oliver back towards the bed, then climbs on himself and presses their bodies close together.

“Wood, fucking hell, _Oliver._ ” Marcus mumbles against his cheek, as Oliver’s hands pull hurriedly at Marcus’s belt buckle. Their lips meet again, and the nip of teeth against his bottom lip has Oliver shuddering. He moves to shuck off his own jeans, only to be stopped by strong hands.

Marcus kisses a line across his collarbone. “Let me do it, god, I’ve been imagining this for ages.”

Oliver can’t help but laugh shakily. “Didn’t undress anyone in Bulgaria?” The gaze that Marcus fixes on him is dark, intense, solidly focused on his being. He feels stripped raw, with nowhere to hide.

“No.” Marcus says, as if the idea had never occurred to him. Oliver swallows roughly.

“No,” Marcus continues, “Wouldn’t have felt right even if I wanted to.” He leans down to suck at Oliver’s pulse point, simultaneously pulling Oliver upright. Now Oliver’s straddling Marcus’s hips instead of the other way around, and he takes the change in position to grind down against Marcus’s hips.

It elicits a moan from the man beneath him, the sound so familiar and always capable of making Oliver throb with want.

“Missed you.” Marcus mumbles against his skin, so soft that Oliver probably would have missed it if his senses hadn’t been so heightened. His chest aches painfully, wonderfully, at Marcus’s admission.

Marcus’s hot mouth traces slow sultry kisses up his neck. “ _Want_ you.”

And Oliver moans just from the words, so glaring and bold in their intent. He rolls his hips down harder, much to the difficulty of Marcus still trying to undress him, but he doesn’t much care – the friction and slide of fabric and Marcus’s skin on his is enough to fuel his lust.

Marcus manages to untangle Oliver from his jeans, underwear following shortly, and then it’s glorious skin against skin, the hot length of Marcus’s cock rutting against his own. Oliver has to bite down on the junction of Marcus’s neck to keep from making the pathetic little whimpers building in his throat. It’s been too long, he’s too sensitive, and this is going to end before it can even get started.

Oliver huffs as the broader man leans over him to rummage around in the bedside drawer. He takes the opportunity to trace a nipple with his own tongue, working and nipping at it until it’s a hardened nub.

“ _Wood_.” Marcus groans, momentarily distracted from his search. “ _Fuck_ do you want – _shit_ – do you want me to fuck you or not?” The full body shiver Oliver manages to elicit as he bites at a dusky nipple gives him a thrill.

Marcus pushes Oliver away from his chest, grumbling until he finally manages to fish the lube out of the drawer.

“Was right there.” Oliver smiles cheekily.

“Terrible.” Marcus murmurs, but he presses a light flurry of kisses onto Oliver’s cheek all the same.

Oliver leans back, and the sight that meets his eyes causes him to pause and drink it all in. Marcus, long limbs and broad shoulders, splayed across the grey sheets, want plainly written across his features. Black hair a little messy from where Oliver had ran his hands through it, and Oliver wants to trace the lines of his abdomen with his tongue. All that training has done the body good – muscles now even more defined and Oliver wants to feel all of it, pressing him into the mattress.

His mouth dries at the sight of Marcus’s cock – long and thick and dripping at the tip, the man’s large hands already stroking, and he wants to get his mouth on it, wants to watch as Marcus’s face contorts with pleasure and make him gasp and moan and-

“If you’re done watching,” Marcus smirks, closing the lube with a snap of the cap, “I’d like to get back to what we were doing.”

Oliver doesn’t need to be told twice, so he crawls back up along the length of Marcus’s body until they’re face to face.

Marcus hums appreciatively as their hips press together again. “What do you want?”  
  
“Don’t care,” Oliver says truthfully, “You. Anything. Everything.”

“Good answer.” And then Marcus is kissing him again, slow and sure and Oliver melts against his chest, pressing as close as he can get. He feels the Chaser’s groan vibrating against his torso, and then he’s pushed off and arranged onto all fours.

“What – _OH_.”

The breathy moan escapes him when Marcus’s tongue traces along the rim of his opening. The heat of his breath sends shivers up Oliver’s spine. It’s good, so good, the rush of sensation from tongue and spit working him open slowly, and Oliver’s arms are trembling from how he’s trying to keep himself up.

Marcus spreads him wider, tongue delving in until it’s past Oliver’s rim and then deeper. Fingers are now ghosting over his perineum as well, and then one long, slick, callused digit enters him. Oliver thrusts his fist into his mouth to keep from making the embarrassing whimpering noise that’s building in his chest.

Marcus notices his attempt at quieting himself with amusement.

“Wood,” He says, voice pitched lower and hoarser than normal, “let me hear you.”

Oliver groans because he _knows_ he’s loud, _knows_ that he won’t be in enough of his head to keep from spilling embarrassing pleas, not if the way Marcus is taking him apart slowly is any indication. But Marcus is watching him, grey eyes hooded with lust and affection and Oliver can’t help but comply.

Marcus leans back in, tongue laving a trail over where two of his fingers are now thrusting and curling up into Oliver. It’s slow, just a borderline too shallow for Marcus’s fingers to really reach where Oliver wants them and he indicates as much, rolling his hips backwards to try to get more of Marcus into him. The only response he gets is an enthusiastic lapping and a hint of teeth, which has him keening against the pillow case as his arms give out at the pleasure.

“Fuck, hurry up.” Oliver grits out, as a third finger pokes at his entrance. “Use the goddamn spell, for all I care.”

He’s maneuvered over onto his back and Marcus crawls up to catch his mouth again. The kiss is slower than usual, languid, almost romantic in a way, and Oliver feels emotions welling up in his chest when Marcus pulls back to just look at him.

“Just – let me.” Is all the dark haired man says, before three fingers enter Oliver, and the bedroom is filled with a wanton cry. It’s a tight fit, his body still a little tense and not used to the intrusion after so many months. But god, Marcus is good with his hands, always has been – no late night wanking session could ever fulfill him like _this_.

 _Pleases_ and _fasters_ are falling from Oliver’s lips before he can help himself, but Marcus is spending his sweet time taking him apart. A twist of Marcus’ fingers has Oliver burying a wretched sob against the pillow. The scent of Marcus surrounding him makes him heady, and he can feel his cock dripping onto the sheets.

There’s a press to that spot, then another, and white hot pleasure roots itself in his spine – another long press, and then he’s coming untouched, gasp buried into the crook of his own arm.

Marcus crawls over him deftly, lips ghosting over his skin. “So sensitive.”

“Fuck – fuck.” Oliver says, still shaking a bit at his orgasm. “It’s just been-”

“Too long? Pretty pleased I can still get you so worked up.” Marcus is grinning down at him with no shame in his smugness, and Oliver can’t help but punch the other man’s chest lightly.

“Still got that ego, I see.”

Marcus doesn’t bother responding, instead licking into Oliver’s mouth with dirty intent. The hot length of Marcus’s cock is still poking into Oliver’s hip, so he smears some lube onto his hand and reaches down for it, fingers curling and spreading the slick. Oliver strokes in a hot, rough, rhythm and now it’s Marcus’s turn to groan as Oliver’s hand twists at the head of his cock, just the way he knows the Chaser likes.

Marcus bats his hand away after a couple more strokes.

“You keep doing that,” The Chaser pants against Oliver’s jaw, “And this’ll be over too soon.”

And then Marcus is settling above him, helping Oliver lift his hips up just so, all broad shoulders, grey eyes, dark hair flopping into his face. Oliver curls his legs around Marcus’s waist, urging him on. He sighs lightly at the first press of Marcus’s cock against him, and the slow, steady slide until Marcus seats himself fully has Oliver’s body thrumming.

It’s tight, and it hurts, but the pleasure of being filled is enough to drown out any discomfort. A rough hand pushes back his hair that’s sticking to his forehead, and Oliver can’t help but lean up, asking for a kiss that Marcus obliges him in.

It’s rare they go so slow – last couple of times they’ve fucked had been fast, frenzied, tearing at each other’s skin because time together had been slowly trickling out. But now, Oliver muses, as his fingers trace Marcus’s back idly, now it feels like they’ve got the whole stretch of the future before them. Or he hopes so, at least.

The first movement of Marcus’ hips chases away all of Oliver’s doubts because _oh_. _Oh_ , Merlin. Fuck, it’s good, the friction and the thickness of Marcus’ cock sliding in and out, and Oliver’s back arches. His cock jolts with interest, rapidly hardening once again.

“ _Marcus_.” A gasp leaves him of his own volition, as Marcus’s slow thrusts continue. Oliver’s afraid he’s moaning so loud the neighbors will hear, and he feels the hot flush spread down his chest at how wanting he must seem right now.

“Good, Ollie, so fucking good.” Marcus is mumbling incoherently against his collarbone. Oliver roots his hands into sweaty dark hair.

Each slow press of Marcus’ hips has Marcus’ cock dragging over Oliver’s prostate, the angle just right – as if Marcus has remembered the right approach to his body. He keens at a particularly deep thrust, clenching down tighter and the groan that Marcus ends up burying against his neck is gratifying – the fact that Marcus is just as close to falling apart as he is.

Oliver rolls his hips towards Marcus’s steady thrusts, intent on getting deeper, fuller, _more_. Marcus’s eyes are lidded in pleasure above him. He tugs the Chaser down with his arms, until their noses are touching, lips just a breadth away.

“Love this.” Oliver pants out. “Love _you,_ oh Merlin.”

Marcus kisses him breathless. The harsh thrust that accompanies it forces Oliver to lean back, toes curling. It’s heady, and just this side of torturous, the steady even thrusts into him; Marcus keeps him on the brink, overwhelming in the constant onslaught of sensation.

He mouths at the Chaser’s neck, sucking and biting, intent on leaving his mark on the tan skin. Familiar heat is pooling in the pit of his stomach, and his toes are curling at each jolt of pleasure. Marcus’ hips speed up slightly, and Oliver can’t help dragging his nails down Marcus’ back, something appreciated if the resounding moan is anything to go by.

“Too good for me.” Marcus pants, as Oliver nips at the Chaser’s earlobe. “Always have been.”

Marcus buries his face against Oliver’s neck, arms scooping underneath Oliver’s shoulders to cradle him closer. The warmth of Marcus’ body pressed against him makes him shiver, friction against his cock, and with Marcus’ sucking lightly on his pulse point, Oliver unravels, shuddering as his orgasm hits quickly for the second time that night. He moans shakily.

Marcus groans at the feeling of Oliver tightening around him, and then his hips stutter and press in deep, deep, deep. “ _Oliver._ ” Is the whisper that falls from the Chaser’s lips as he comes, eyes closed in pleasure. Oliver runs his hands over Marcus’ back, urging and accepting, pleased at being filled in the best way possible.

His chest is blooming with warmth, as he comes down from their high – this, a bed, them, a simple arrangement of limbs, Marcus, finally back in easy arms reach. Oliver traces Marcus’ cheekbone with a light finger, heart bursting as the Chaser leans into his touch.

Oliver's good at planning things out - each play is meticulously outlined, each practice painstakingly circled on his calendar. But Marcus isn't something he'd ever envisioned entering his life - the man's a Bludger, crashing in, turning Oliver's world into chaos and havoc. And if there's another thing that Oliver knows he's good at, it's fighting back against the chaos, to create a steady push and pull between the two opposing forces. He wonders when Marcus managed to engrave himself so fully into his heart, but as the Chaser presses a lazy kiss to his sternum, he realizes that maybe, sometimes losing the control is alright. 

It's the best things, after all, that arise from the unexpected moments. 

(Deep down, Oliver knows he's been tied to Marcus ever since that first Quidditch game back at Hogwarts - where Flint had marked him to take down, and Oliver had been determined not to let him.

He'd lost that round, knocked out in ten minutes flat, but Oliver's pretty sure he won, in the long run.)

They stay wrapped up in each other, exchanging slow, slow kisses before Marcus grumbles at the stickiness of his skin. But the man makes no move to detangle himself from the bed and Oliver’s limbs, instead burrowing further into Oliver’s chest.

Oliver can’t help but chuckle lightly – Marcus tends to get notoriously clingy after sex, and time apart doesn’t seem to have changed that. “Shower, you brat, or we’ll end up stuck together.”

“Don’t mind being stuck to you.” Marcus murmurs, lips barely moving. He nuzzles closer.

“Shower.” Oliver says firmly, intent on massaging out the knots of stress his wandering hands feel on Marcus’ back. He drags his boyfriend (boyfriend, lover – god, it feels good to call Marcus that with certainty again) into the adjoining bathroom.

The rush of cold water once they’ve gotten into the shower wakes them both up from their post-coital laze.

“Shit,” Marcus splutters, “It takes a while for it to heat up.”

Oliver shivers but he’s grinning at Marcus’ childishly disgruntled expression. He presses his body closer, both for warmth and just because.

“We’ve got time.” He says, and Marcus smiles against his lips as they kiss again, and again, and again.

“Mm. We’re okay.” Marcus says quietly.

Okay, Oliver thinks, as he rubs shampoo into Marcus’ dark hair. Okay. Okay is good and solid and hopeful and they’ll probably start fighting like cats and dogs again in a week, but they’ll be okay, in the end.

Marcus laughs, unrestrained and surprised, when Oliver blows soap bubbles into his face.

Oliver thinks okay is perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Angelina and Oliver are best Quidditch bros tbh - badass captains ftw.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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